


NONPLuSSED

by ThinkingCAPSLOCK



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Black Romance, Blood, F/M, Gore, Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-20
Updated: 2012-07-20
Packaged: 2017-11-10 09:07:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/464594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThinkingCAPSLOCK/pseuds/ThinkingCAPSLOCK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's dead and gone and you're still not happy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	NONPLuSSED

You spend an hour in her room on Prospit. 

Your legs dangle in. You keep yourself perched in the window. Your white cloak blows in the grey sky behind you. A giant hole sits on the opposite wall, and you stare out it to the golden streets below. You've got plenty of time to use on anything you want. But right now you just feel like gloating. Her body's a mess and you pride yourself on it. It's just such a work. Of. Art. Lime soaked yellows, skin spotted with patches of light. Still and framed against her own blood. 

And the lime is just. So. Hideous. Such a gross hue. It catches your attention every few seconds. You turn to stare. It's disgusting. Something that everyone should hate as much as you do. You slam down to the ground, one foot, one peg, and cross the room. You tear off the coat and lie it in the pool. It soaks and drinks the blood and you keep your flashing, godlike eyes on her face. The coat turns green, inch by inch. 

You kick her face when you lean down to pick it up. You laugh. Her head moves, then stills. Her neck is covered in bruises. The coat is in your hand and you throw it on. A sticky neon icon to blaze your path with. You kick her again. And again. 

Something is in your gut. It clenches and twists and bubbles through your veins. You feel it shift down and go into each of your toes when you give one final kick. You scowl. Your foot feels heavy. You don't kick again.

You exit out the window. A few coughs later, the feeling in your stomach is gone. 

She's dead and gone but it's not enough. 

You have more places to destroy, more areas you need to test yourself. To stretch your power. Time travel is easy. You go back and forth, making loops, destroying worlds. You blaze through lands and worlds and eons and press your powers harder and further than ever before. The tales of the lime green monster spread. Every age has a different version of you. It is just. Too. Perfect. That when they think of their fear and hatred, they think of her disgusting blood before your own flashing lights and peg leg. They think of the green monster with the bright coat.

And yet there's something that pulls at you. In your gut. The same thing that would bubble up in your blood once in a while. That would make you check over your shoulder. That would make you stare down at the thing you just killed. Your flashing eyes focus on the carcass, the way the blood runs rust red. The way the tan. Flesh. Peels. Something about it makes your stomach clench in frustration. The colour green dances before your eyes and in the back of your mind.

You think you discover it when you try and travel back in time and end up on an unfamiliar world. There is not. One. Thing. That you recognise. You grip your staff tight in one hand and explore. And it's not a problem, not until you find someone and they just stare at you. No fear. Nothing but the same confusion you feel looking back up at you. 

It takes three days to figure out you are in a completely different galaxy. A completely different timeline and continuity than the one you already controlled. The ache in your chest and the fire in your blood churn together. It burns your mind. This isn't your power. Not the one under your title. It's not time. It's space.

She's dead and gone and part of her is stuck with you. 

You spend an hour in her room on Prospit. 

You can't fit through the window, and instead use the massive hole on the side again. The blood on the floor is gone. You made sure your visit was days after the first one you had years ago. She looks all kinds of worse for wear. Chipping leather skin. Sunken eyes. She's shriveled and tiny. The tug forms in your chest and you hobble over beside her, but up close there isn't a big change. In. Appearance. She's just as awful as you remember. 

You grab her dress and haul up. The fabric tears and she crashes back to the ground. Her bones snap and crinkle and you angrily tear off the faded yellow fabric from your claws. Something sits in the back of your mind and spreads to your hands, but you shake it off. You hook your claws into her green flesh and drag her face up close to yours. Everything about her is sunken and shrunken and small. 

"You think you've won?" you try and whisper but you're too used to screaming. "You think you've won? Trouts the shrew? I've got your powers cause you're dead, sis! I've got them because. You're. Dead. I already won." 

You drop her and she crumbles a little. The weird sensation appears again, and you scratch your palms. You stare at her. Think of all the bitchy things she's done. Always tidying up after you. Always winning chess. Always locking your stupid foot every night. Your eyes flicker and change and you feel your mouth form into a scowl. She should be saying something. Or doing something. But she just sits there dead and you can't stand it. 

You roar and grab an arm. You rip it clean from her torso. It snaps and tugs, long pieces of flesh solid and leather, rotten and stringy. And nothing happens. No one stops you and she certainly won't complain about it later. She doesn't cry out or whine and barely moves. You chuck the limb to the side. It rattles against the wall and you watch it until it stops. You straighten. 

There's still a feeling there, a twitching, a rock in your gut that you should. Remove. But you don't know how. It sits strange inside your body, heavy and loaded. Maybe it had nothing to do with her after all. 

You make your way back to the hole in the wall and jump out. In seconds and flashes you are eons and light years away. 

She's dead and gone and you have bigger things to do. 

There are thousands of other universes out there, and each one takes time and consideration to enter. Some you can't. Some you have to wait for an event, but once it happens, you have free reign over it. You take on thousands of tentacled creatures, struggling and fighting, and only some escape your grasp. 

You move on to a world where you set up your minions, and carefully orchestrate every event through the help of an excellent host. You have your minions dress in the same garb, the same gross colour you wear. And the more you look, the more something churns, the more your blood boils and your eyes flash. 

Everyone hates the colour. Everyone fears it. But they don't understand how much you hate it. How you hate her. How you look at the colour and see your sister's stupid drawings, her hideous tailcoat, her pool of blood on the yellow floor. It's all you focus on. You grow older and stretch your reach beyond the realms of time, but every time you look at your coat, or your assistant, you feel the boiling begin anew. 

You set out and have your assistant kill the lime blooded population. It's a simple task to set up by now. You barely bat an eye as you give the order and send her along. Sometimes, when you're free and in the right time and universe, you step in. You rip off a head, throw apart limbs. But it doesn't help. The pit sits there in your gut, clenching, spreading. When it hits the tips of your fingers you leave, jumping through space, screaming and yelling and killing when you land again. 

She's dead and gone and you don't know why you can't stop thinking about her.

You spend an hour in her room on Prospit. 

It's been so long since you visited. You go as early in the timeline as you can so you can remember her better. You see the tower loom ahead of you. There's no way you'll fit through the window now. But that doesn't stop you. With one big punch you break. Down. The wall. A giant hole appears, and it tugs at your mind. Something you've forgotten. You don't focus on it. Your rage is a layer of fog over your mind and vision. 

She's lying on the ground, bleeding. She turns her head to look at you, eyes wide. You came too early. She isn't dead yet. 

You roar. The whole tower shakes, and you cross the room in a flash. One hand curls around her throat. You see green and lime and green. Your veins pump lava through your body and you squeeze. You can feel the bruises forming around her neck, feel the air escaping her lungs, hear the pounding of her heart as it forces the blood out of her. 

And she glares at you. Her eyes are narrow slits of bright and white. Just. Looking. At. You. And you know she knows who you are. Despite the changes, the years, the eons. With a huge struggle, she spits on you.

You grin. 

It isn't long before her eyes go dull and her head goes limp. You haven't killed her, not really. She was already dead. Eons and years and countless seconds ago. And you feel the familiar happiness that she's gone, the joy that the bitch you loathed is still gone and will always be gone. But there's something missing. The sinking in your gut, the clenching of your fists. The bubbling rage inside your blood. And the pool of lime beneath her. Just. Grows. 

And so do the rocks and mountains in your stomach, and your hands get tight and tear your skin, and your blood burns against your eyes and in your brain. You let out a deep yell that shakes the tower. 

Something clicks in the back of your mind. The hole. The bruises. A very distant memory of your first visit to see her. The same joy and ecstasy you feel watching the life leave her. The twinge in your gut that comes with it. The lump in your throat. Something lodging deep inside you.

You want the thrill of fighting her. Of planning. Of setting everything up just so you can end. Her. Life. You want to spend nights bribing and sneaking, and your days luring humans to do your will. 

You want to kill her. You want to spend the rest of your life killing her.

You crash your faces together. The heat on her mouth has almost faded. There's no response, no movement. Just the flow of lime around your legs and staining the hem of your already neon coat. You kiss her until she's cold, until you know you're coming, thousands of years ago, to gloat over her corpse. And you kiss her more. 

You're out the window and three hundred years in the future, four galaxies away.

She's dead and gone and you hate her for it.


End file.
